


Twin Rings of Fire

by talesofmaehem



Category: The Infernal Devices
Genre: Parabatai, Parabatai Feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-05-17 21:29:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14839502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talesofmaehem/pseuds/talesofmaehem
Summary: Just a series of (very short) one-shots about my two favorite parabatai. Sometimes they're platonic. Sometimes they're romantic. There's fluff. There's angst. Whatever they are, they're together.(As always, I own none of the characters- props to Cassandra Clare for their brilliance)





	1. Unasked

Some questions are better left unasked. 

He tells himself this isn’t one of them. That the words don’t hang heavily in the air and that Jem’s eyes aren’t wide with an emotion he can’t identify. Confusion? Disbelief? Pity? Will’s stomach does a complicated flip. If Jem says no….he doesn’t think he’ll be able to bear it. But if he says yes...he’s not sure he’ll be able to bear that either. 

For a moment Ella’s face floats before his eyes- the way she looked before Will’s curse. The way she looked after. 

But Jem is already dying and maybe he could give him this. Maybe this death would be better. He thought he might be sick. What if it was worse? What if this was a terrible mistake? What if he was dooming Jem?

The question couldn’t be unasked.

“Will…”

His heart sunk. Jem’s voice was gentle. He was too kind to be cruel but Will felt the knife in his heart all the same. 

“James,” he started, needing to speak, “ I know that I- that I’m not the easiest person to get along with. But you have to know that I’m sincere, that I meant it, every word. You’re the only-”

“William.”

He stopped. He couldn’t believe it was going to end like this. He imagined how it would be now that he had to live in the horrifying reality of After. Good Lord, would he have to be cruel to James now? That he could not bear.

“Will,” again that catastrophic gentleness, “parabatai are for life. You know I am destined for a short one-”

Will opened his mouth to argue, to refute Jem’s illness, to assure him they would find a cure.

“-don’t Will, you know it is so. And I cannot agree to be your parabatai knowing that in 5 years or 10 I would leave you alone.”

“Jem-”

“Parabatai are more than just- Will, they knit their souls together. You can only have one. You should wait until you meet someone who can be with you for a whole lifetime, someone who isn’t-”

“James.” And this time it is Will’s voice that brooked no argument. He had to find a way to make James understand. He took a step closer to Jem, the cool silver of the other boy’s eyes meeting the intensity of his own gaze. 

Jem was the only good thing Will had in his life. The only family he allowed himself. Jem, with his unfailing kindness. Jem, with his patience, even with the snobby Lightwood idiots, who saw the best in Will even when he was determined to be awful. Jem, who made him laugh as no one else could, who knew exactly what he was thinking, who he could share a joke with without even needing words. 

“It is as you said; parabatai knit their souls together. They are as one soul in two bodies. James, I will not find someone else. You cannot be so easily replaced. Cannot be replaced at all. Since that day in the training room, my soul has called yours brother. If you will not be my parabatai then I will have none.”

Jem’s eyes were wide. Could he really not know how much he meant to Will? Could he doubt it? When Jem opened his mouth to answer, Will rushed on.

“Don’t answer now. Say you’ll think about it. Please.”

His voice broke on the last word, and he saw Jem’s jaw tighten at the sound. The two boys stared at each other. Will reached to his belt and pulled out a knife, Jem’s knife, and held it out to his best friend. To his brother. An offering.

Jem reached out, but he didn’t take the knife. Instead he curled his small hand around Will’s on the hilt.

“Alright,” he said softly.

Will raised his eyes from their hands to Jem’s face. He didn’t breathe. He was afraid to hope.

“I’ll think about it,” Jem relented.


	2. Civilized Human Beings

It is 2 am and the rap at Jem’s window is insistent.

He didn’t want to get up. He couldn’t remember if he’d been dreaming, but his head felt heavy and he tasted the memory of smoke on his tongue. Maybe it was merely the tree outside the Institute, one of its arching branches tapping against the glass in the night. The rap comes again, demanding. It is not a branch. With a sigh he sits up and looks to the window. A dark figure is crouched outside the pane of glass, pale moonlight sifting through the fog to rest against midnight dark curls. 

Will. 

Their eyes meet and for a moment neither of them moves. Jem considers lying back down and covering his head with a pillow. Another image replaces his longing for his bed: Will alone on a roof with only the night for company, the way his eyes would flash with hurt though Will would never let it show on his face. Jem sighs again and slides from beneath his covers, the sheets sticking to his fevered skin. He relishes the icy shock as his bare feet meet the cold floor and he pads to the window, reaching for the latch.

Will is still and watchful on the roof and when Jem opens the window he sees the other boy release a breath. He waits for Will to say something. He sees now that Will is clad, not in gear, but merely shirt sleeves, a knife- Jem’s knife- strapped to his waist. 

“Will,” he says since the other boy has yet to speak.

“Jem.” 

They sit in silence like that for a long minute.

“Is there a reason you didn’t use the door like a civilized human being?”

“Seemed like a good idea at the time. More adventuresome this way,” a pause, and then, “Come on a walk with me?”

“A walk? You do know what time it is I presume?”

Will didn’t bother to answer, just stared at Jem expectantly.

“By the Angel, Will, if you make a habit of coming to my window in the middle of the night and asking me to accompany you on a stroll, people will begin to think we’re courting.”

This startles a laugh from Will and Jem relishes it. He is the only one that can make Will laugh. 

Will must know he has won then, because he says, “Put your breeches on Carstairs, I’ll make an honest man of you yet.”

Jem laughs in turn, which makes Will’s eyes brighten. He throws on his clothes, grabbing a jacket and tossing his spare one to Will to keep off the chill. 

“You mother hen,” Will teases, but he slips Jem’s jacket on all the same. James bends to tie his shoes and when he turns back Will is crouched in the window, watching him. He quirks an eyebrow at the other boy and in response he earns a rakish smile and an extended hand. 

He takes it, and Will pulls him through the window. The air is crisp, the world cloaked in fog, but Will is beside him and the possibilities feel endless. He cannot believe moments before he had wished only for his bed. He realizes then that his hand is still in Will’s, and he cannot tell who is holding who, but he does not move to pull his hand away. It is Will who lets go first. He scrambles down to a lower level, then another, then the ground, and reaches out his hand again to Jem, knowing the other boy will follow. 

Jem scrambles after Will, leaping to the ground beside his parabatai. He takes Will’s hand, and the two of them slip into the night.


	3. Poultry Pies

When Jem gets to the training room, Will is already there lying on the floor. Jem pauses in the doorway, taking a moment to collect his breath. He is breathing harder than he would like to admit, and certainly harder than he would like to admit to Will. Especially with today being what it is. 

After convincing his lungs to stop heaving, he walks over to his parabatai and gazes down at him curiously. Charlotte had mentioned the incident with the Shax demon, and at first Jem had been angry and anxious that Will had gone without him. But now that the reality of Will is before him, he feels his anger ebb away replaced only with his seemingly constant anxiety over his parabatai.

He nudges Will with his foot. “Are you alright?”

Will doesn’t open his eyes. “The fact that I’m on the ground means nothing,” he replies sulkily. 

Jem raises his eyebrows but the effect is lost on Will. A glimmer on Will’s gear catches his attention, a ragged slice across his upper arm that bleeds scarlet. It might not be life threatening, but his parabatai’s disregard for his own well-being makes Jem’s heart twinge just the same. 

“And I suppose the fact that you’re bleeding also means nothing?”

Will turns his head and looks at him then, and Jem is shocked by the emptiness in his best friend’s gaze.

“It means,” Will replies in his usual acidic tone, “that there is still blood in me left to spill.”

So it is going to be one of those days then.

Jem sighs and moves to sit beside Will. Without preamble he grabs Will’s injured arm and pulls out his stele. The other boy hisses in pain but doesn’t pull away as Jem traces an iratze on his forearm. They watch as the bleeding stops and the skin slowly turns pink and begins to heal itself. Or rather, Jem watches and Will watches Jem. He can feel Will’s intense gaze on him and he knows Will is taking in the dilation of his pupils, the race of his pulse, trying to assess how well he is today. He removes Will’s arm from where it rests in his lap and stands, despite Will’s sound of protest at being thus abused. 

“Well if you’re done sulking, I’ve an errand to run in Chelsea,” Jem states and starts walking towards the door, “Are you coming?”

“Chelsea?” Will sits up and narrows his eyes, “That’s the other side of London. What in the devil’s name could you need there?”

“Rosin,” he answered, latching on to the first thing that came to mind, “and new A strings. You know how they tend to break.”

“And the only place you can get A strings is in Chelsea?” Will asked dubiously.

Jem had to admit it wasn’t his best excuse, but he’d been worried about Will and hadn’t had time to come up with something better.

“And rosin,” he added cheerfully. “And on the way Charlotte asked if we might stop by Hyde Park and do a quick patrol. Apparently there have been complaints about fairies playing tricks on picnickers. Something about charming ducks or some such nonsense.”

Will had perked up at the mention of doing a patrol, and now he leaped to his feet and stalked towards the weapons rack.

“Well if there’s ducks involved,” he said, restocking his weapons belt with throwing knives, “we must away at once! We can’t leave people to the mercy of those fowl fiends.”

He stopped and threw a sharp smile at Jem. “Get it? Fowl fiends? Because they’re birds?”

Jem grins back, “that was truly awful.” But he's secretly pleased that Will is at least still capable of joking. Maybe today won't be as awful as last year.

Jem grabs his cane and the two boys leave the Institute. It is a grey and blustery day, and Jem shivers as the cold air rattles around his lungs. Will is still in a black mood though, despite his earlier joking, so Jem does the only thing he can think of. He takes off running, tearing through the streets of London. He hears a surprised “James!” behind him, so he turns, trotting backwards and grinning.

“Need an invitation William?” and then he sprints around the corner.

He just makes out Will’s spluttered cursing and the sound of the other boy’s steps chasing after him. They’ve done this enough times now that the wager is implicit: last one to the baker’s pays for the other’s pie. 

The two of them hurtle through the crowded streets, their glamours leaving a confused populace in their wake. Usually Jem would feel bad about taking advantage of their glamours this way, but today is an exception. The 10th of November. William’s bleakest day. He is not sure, exactly, why this day is worse than all the others, only that it is. 

It feels good to run, and today his blood pumps strongly through his veins. His heart sings in his chest and the wind whips his hair and he can’t contain a joyous whoop. Will, having caught up, throws an odd look his way but he is smiling despite himself. They crash into the baker’s, evenly tied despite Jem’s head start. Jem is laughing and jostles the other boy until he is laughing too.They each buy their respective pies and stroll out the door.

“Hyde Park next?” Jem asks biting in to his pie.

Will nods his assent and the two begin walking in that direction. Jem keeps up a steady chatter, talking about Bach and the latest works of Tchaikovsky, about their latest assigned reading for their history tutor, and the hardships of learning Purgatic.

There is a lull in the conversation, or rather Jem has run out of topics on which he can monologue, when Will speaks up.

“You know what?” He is studying his poultry pie as if it contains the secrets of the universe. 

“What?” Jem asks. 

“I bet,” Will begins slowly, “if you threw a poultry pie at the ducks in Hyde Park, they would eat it.”

Jem stares at his parabatai.

“Think about it, James! The possibilities! We could breed a whole race of cannibalistic ducks.”

“And you think that would be a good idea…why?”

“Perhaps, they would assume vicious, demon fighting powers. We could train them to fight alongside us. Or, better yet, we could export them all to the demon realms and maybe the ducks and the demons would destroy each other. Then all our problems would be solved.”

Jem did not think that a race of cannibalistic ducks would solve any problems. In all likelihood it would only create more. But a ridiculous Will was better than a sullen Will.

“Well I suppose there’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?” he grins.

And the two of them enter Hyde Park.


	4. Bad Ideas

This was a bad idea.

Perhaps it wasn’t his _worst_ idea, but it was certainly up there.

Maybe top ten, Will mused to himself, struggling beneath the weight of the wooden crate he was currently carrying as he teetered up the narrow stairs to the roof. At any rate, he’d certainly done stupider things and come out the other side of them just as witty and handsome as he’d been before, so he figured his luck would probably hold. And it wasn’t as if the Institute was unfamiliar with explosions, what with Henry’s numerous inventive setbacks in the crypt-turned-laboratory. Really, he convinced the voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Charlotte, this was perfectly tame compared to some of the other alternatives he’d considered.

Besides, it was for Jem, and that settled it.

He swung open the trapdoor and surveyed the rooftop. There. He walked towards the large flat space between two peaked windows. A widow’s walk, his memory supplied, this time in the voice of his mother. He shook his head, banishing the voice to the past he’d left behind. Where it belonged.

Beyond the roof, London stretched out worn and grey and smokey. He watched the sinking sun set the Thames on fire and wondered if Shanghai would be much the same. If people still crowded one another in market squares and merchants shouted abuse about each other’s wares. It probably was. How different could two cities be? Neither was anything like the rolling hills of home. He doubted either could begin to touch the shifting colors of the Welsh sea. Enough, he scolded himself. Enough. He’d dwelt on things better forgotten more than enough for one day.

He deposited his box of mischief next to one of the peaked windows and got to work.

An hour later, when the sky just remembered being light though the sun had since slipped past the horizon, he went in search of James.

 

* * *

 

Will followed the strains of Jem’s violin to the music room. The music was wavery and thin, reedlike and jaunty, not anything he’d heard Jem play before. He slipped into the room, and though he was sure he hadn’t made a sound the corners of Jem’s mouth still tugged upward.

“Will? Will is that you?”

Jem didn’t open his eyes when he asked, so Will took the opportunity to assess his parabatai unobserved. Jem’s once black hair was now streaked with silver. His skin, once tanned from the sun of a foreign city, had paled to the color of parchment. His thin bones protruded sharply from his face and wrists, but his hand was steady and sure, still gracefully pulling the bow of his violin. He stood straight and tall with his back to the fire, light and shadow drawing Will's eye over all his dips and hollows.

Will swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. 

“No,” he drawled, remembering himself, “It’s the ghost of Christmas past.”

Jem’s smile spread wider across his face, but he didn’t open his eyes until he was finished playing.

“What was that? I haven’t heard you play it before,” he noted as his parabatai carefully tucked his violin back into it’s case.

“No, it’s a song I only half remember. From China,” he clarified, “It wasn’t written for the violin. I was trying to transpose it.”

Will hummed thoughtfully.

“What was it like? Shanghai?”

Jem turned to look at him. Will didn’t often ask about Jem’s past, the better to fend off inquiry into his own troubled memories, but he was curious. He noticed Jem reach into his collar and touch something. A flash of pale green and Will knew it for what it was: a jade pendant in the shape of a fist. Will had brought it home for Jem when James was still new to London and sleepless with homesickness. Will, too familiar with the feeling, had felt the urge to ease Jem’s suffering, even if he could not ease his own.

“It is loud and crowded and smells,” Jem said, a distance seeping into his voice, “as all cities I imagine,” he added, voicing Will’s own thoughts. “But…the sounds are not the same sounds, nor the smells the same smells. It is brighter, and the sun shines on thinner towers than those that pierce the skies of London.” Jem looked thoughtful now, lost to memory. “Men pull carts and you can smell the spices of cooking food from market stalls. Banners and signs lean out into the street and there is more color than London knows what to do with.”

Jem was smiling by the time he finished and he quirked his head playfully at his parabatai.

“Thinking of visiting?”

“Hmmm? Oh, no. Can’t stand travel, terrible for the constitution.”

Jem huffed a laugh.

“No,” Will carried on, a mischievous light twinkling in his eye which instantly made Jem wary. “I just wanted to make sure the experience was as authentic as possible.”

Jem narrowed his eyes, “What experience? Will, I swear, if you let silk worms loose in Jessamine’s room again, I am not -”

Will waved him away, “No, no, it’s much better than that,” and he sauntered out of the room leaving Jem to sigh and jog after him.

 

* * *

 

The roof was transformed.

Red paper lanterns hung from string haphazardly draped across the space. Thin rice paper scrolls blew in the soft breeze, adorned with Chinese characters and dragons rendered in bright ink. Witchlight and candles lay scattered across the roof and Jem openly gaped at all of it.

Behind him Will shuffled nervously.

“Do you…like it?”

Jem was lost for words. Like it? It was more than anyone had ever done for him in his life. Well, with the possible exception of Charlotte who had taken him into her home, but the point stood. He stared open mouthed at Will.

“Like it? Will, it’s- How did you even-” Jem shook his head trying to come to some coherent thought.

Will frowned. He was momentarily struck with the mortifying idea that perhaps he had insulted Jem.

“Did I do it wrong?”

“Wrong?” Jem looked bewildered, and then seemed to catch Will’s train of thought.

“No, Will,” he took three quick strides to Will’s side and pulled him into a tight embrace, “it is the single greatest thing anyone has ever done for me.” He turned again to survey Will’s work while Will blinked, evidently still processing Jem’s show of affection.

“Though,” Jem mused eyeing the candles glittering amid the steady witchlight, “it does look a bit like your plotting to burn the Institute down.”

He turned to catch Will’s look of amusement only to find a brighter gleam in his parabtai’s eye.

“Well now that you mention it,” Will grinned and Jem’s stomach tightened as it recognized the look Will got when he was about to engage in a particularly stupid idea.

“William,” Jem started, but Will was already moving towards a wooden crate that Jem hadn’t noticed earlier.

Jem moved up behind Will, glancing over his shoulder as Will rummaged around its contents.

“Are those-”

“Fireworks,” Will agreed smugly, pulling one out from the crate. “Bought them off a pixie down in Whitechapel. Shall we light one off and see how it goes?”

“Will, I really don’t think that’s-” But Will had already set it on the edge of the roof and was striking a match.

He set the flame to the fuse, but it burned much quicker than Will anticipated. Will swore colorfully and Jem only just had time to jerk Will back by his collar, sending both boys tumbling together, as a whining rocket took off in a shower of sparks. They watched, sprawled against each other, as the rocket exploded, coalescing into a phoenix that swooped over the boys and let out a powerful shriek before dissolving into embers. Both boys gaped in silence, the acrid scent of smoke filling the air. A laugh bubbled up James’s throat and Will felt it vibrate against his back. He realized, distantly, that he was practically in James's lap but by then they were both laughing hysterically.

“Again” Jem gasped holding his ribs, and Will gestured for him to choose the next one.

Fire birds and dragons, warriors and horses all burst to life against the night sky. Will watched as Jem stared wonderingly at a tiger that exploded into being and proceeded to leap magnificently high into the sky, as if it meant to swallow the moon. Jem turned towards Will, becoming a slim silhouette as the tiger dripped into a shower of falling stars behind him. Will waited as Jem approached, until his parabatai was standing only a foot away from him. Will’s heart raced, though he wasn’t sure why. This was Jem, his Jem. He told himself it was only the adrenaline of the fireworks.

“Happy New Year James,” he murmured.

Jem’s eyes were dark and unreadable. He took a step closer and reached for Will’s hand. No, not for his hand, his pulse he realized as Jem’s fingers pressed into his wrist. He felt his heart hammer harder. He couldn’t count the number of times he had been this close to James, how many times they'd reached for each other, but none of them had ever felt like this. Jem leaned in closer, impossibly closer, and Will froze with the thought that Jem might kiss him. That he might kiss Jem back.

Jem’s voice was a warm breath against his ear.

“Thank you, William.”

Will shivered as Jem’s voice traced a lazy finger down his spine, and he knew Jem was close enough to feel his reaction. But Jem just tightened his grip on Will’s hand and pulled him towards the wooden crate where the last few fireworks remained. They sat sprawled together on the roof, Will tracing the outline of Jem’s jaw with his eyes as embers danced in parodies of life above them. The acrid taste of smoke laced his tongue and when the breeze off the Thames shifted he just caught the slight burnt sugar smell of James beside him.

He eased back on his hands, so his shoulder just leaned into Jem. Will felt his parabatai’s gaze cut to him, but he didn’t shift away. Will held his breath. A moment passed, and another, both boys’ eyes trained on the fireworks before them.

Then Jem sighed and leaned slowly into Will’s shoulder.

Will felt his mouth curl into a smile.

Bad idea?

This was definitely one of his _best_ ideas. Top ten at least, he thought to himself as Jem’s pinky stretched out towards his own.


	5. Wildfire

Objectively, Jem knew that Will was beautiful.

Subjectively, Jem knew that Will was devastating.

The blue of Will’s eyes alone made him feel like he’d stripped naked and run into the sea. It wasn’t a particularly pleasant sensation. Abrasive. Shocking. Full of uncertainties. James wasn’t sure why he craved it. Why he thrilled when Will’s eyes held his or hummed with victory when Will’s gaze sought him out across a room. He thought he understood now why people went diving with sharks. The electrifying surge of adrenaline, the potential, the inevitable- all right there, swimming towards you.

The ballroom was filled with people, dancers darting in and out, a swirling mass of color that made Jem dizzy just to look at them. He was leaning back against a wall, watching the festivities, or at least pretending to. In reality, his eyes were skimming over the revelers, seeking out a familiar head of black curls and eyes blue enough to drown in. He spies the Lightwood brothers in close conversation by the punch and Jessamine twirling gracefully on the dance floor in the arms of a well-groomed stranger. Henry spins Charlotte with enthusiasm, if not grace, and her laughter is bright and soaring.

Jem smiles as he watches them. For a moment they remind him of his own parents, dancing across the training room of the Shanghai Institute. Before he had come to London, his father had insisted that Jem learn to dance, claiming no proper gentleman would be without the skill. He had stood on his father’s feet while he went through a waltz and then an allemande. His mother had laughed and whisked Jem into her arms, spinning him wildly between training dummies and shouting to his father that it didn’t matter how you danced so long as you did it with passion. Jem remembers how his father had watched them, an amused smile tugging crookedly at his mouth. And when his parents had danced together, they spun and glided and burned with all the grace of a wildfire. He hadn’t known that two people could move like that. He was used to seeing battle, the coordination of parabatai as they fought, but this was something different. Something beautiful for the sake of being beautiful.

He is shaken from these memories by a lithe figure that leans up against the wall beside him.

Will.

“I never took you for a wallflower James.”

Jem turns to look at him. Once, when he and Will were out on a mission, he’d overheard a pair of fairies remark that Will was clever as the devil and twice as pretty. Tonight, Will is clad in a black suit and blue waistcoat over a crisp linen shirt, and Jem silently finds that he agrees.

“I could say the same to you,” Jem replies.

Will cuts his eyes to him.

“Come now Jem,” he says slyly, “surely you wouldn’t break all the girl’s hearts by denying to dance with them?”

“No,” Jem says mildly, “I’m afraid my invalid status has rather scared them all away.”

He had meant it to be funny. He was sure if he truly wanted to, he could ask any of the unescorted girls to dance and they would humor him. Out of pity if nothing else. But Will’s mouth forms a thin line and Jem knows he has made a mistake.

“Will,” he sighs, waiting for the old argument to rise to his parabatai’s lips.

_Don’t speak like that. You are not an invalid. We will find a cure._ A thousand sentiments that James appreciated but knew weren’t as true as Will wanted them to be.

Will just shakes his head, a defiant flash in his eye that said he was thinking exactly those thoughts but didn’t want to get into it tonight. It was not a fight either of them felt like having.

Instead he says, “Come on,” and pushes off the wall, weaving his way through the fringes of the crowd. Jem sighs and follows him.

“Will, where are we going?” Jem asks as Will makes his way down one darkened hall after another.

But Will ignores him, taking a sharp left and trotting down a short staircase Jem doesn’t remember seeing before. At the bottom is a dark wooden door and Will pushes it open. A blast of chilly winter air barges in and Jem shivers. Will holds the door for him and Jem steps through into a walled garden. He recognizes the place now. He and Will had staged epic snowball fights here when they were younger, and Jessamine had once made them play pretend that they were in _The Secret Garden_ until Will had lost his temper when she insisted Jem play Collin because of his illness.

The garden sits just below the bright windows of the ballroom, music spilling out into the night. Frost laces the holly leaves and glitters against the bare branches of trees, as delicately ornamented as the great hall they had just left.

“What are we doing out here William?”

Will turns to look at Jem, his eyes steady and searching. Then he holds out his hand.

“Dance with me.”

Jem stares at him. It’s possible he hasn’t heard right, that the drifting music has distorted Will’s words and left the impossible hanging frozen in the winter air. Jem looks from his hand back to his face. Will’s gaze is defiant. Jem’s head is spinning.

“I believe it’s customary to ask, Will, not demand.”

Will smiles sharply and steps closer.

They have been dancing around this now for a while. Hands grasped together too long in the training room. Eyes glancing off shoulders and throats when they think the other isn’t looking. Probing comments about pretty girls. _Are you interested? Would you rather have her? Could it ever be me?_ A thousand layers of subtext Jem had half believed he was imagining.

“James,” Will says, like he is savoring the taste of the name on his tongue, “will you do me the honor of dancing with me?”

He stretches his hand out again and this time Jem takes it.

“Yes William,” Jem’s voice sticks in his throat, low and hoarse, “it would be my pleasure.”

Then Will is pulling him closer, his hand slipping down to rest on Jem’s waist while the other twines their fingers together. Will hesitates then, unsure, and Jem takes the lead, stepping them back into a waltz. They glide around the garden, their feet crunching against the frozen grass and Jem feels like he’s in a dream. They step and twirl until the dance ends, and then they dance another. And another. And then Will pulls Jem even closer, closer than the dance requires, until their hips are digging into each other and Jem lets his hand slip from Will’s shoulder to tangle in his hair.

“Will,” Jem warns, even as he leans into his parabatai, until he can feel Will’s racing heart pounding a counter beat to his own.

“I know,” Will says, his voice strangled, but he leans in until his cheek brushes against Jem’s. Until they are breathing the same air and Jem knows that if he leans in only a breath more they will be kissing.

Will’s breathing is ragged.

“I would be damned for this James. For one moment where I could let you know all that is in my heart, I would gladly burn for eternity.”

Jem closes his eyes. Fights the urge to close the distance between them.

“I know your heart William, it is the echo of my own.”

Will sighs a shaky breath and slips both hands around Jem’s waist. Jem laces his other arm around Will’s neck.

“Dance with me,” he murmurs into Will’s shoulder.

He feels Will smile against his cheek.

“As you wish.”  
  


And so two shadows blur together in the night, a wildfire of movement that burns across a walled garden with only the stars as witness.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, sorry guys, this one was super angsty- don't know where that came from. I started out thinking it was going to be cute and fluffy, but that's not how the muses would have it. Hope you enjoy it anyway!


	6. Monochrome

Jem was looking out the window, but he wasn’t admiring the view.

Everything was grey.

His eyes. His hair. Even his skin had become parchment pale.

He lets out a slow breath and watches as it fogs up the glass, obscuring his reflection. The cold air traces lazy fingers over the cloud of condensation until the window is clear again. As if he’d never breathed at all. Just another pane of ice in a frozen world. He leans his forehead against the glass and glances down into the courtyard.

It, too, is grey and watchful in the fading light, the sun just a pallid afterthought beneath a quilt of clouds. A clamor at the gate grabs Jem’s attention. It’s Will, charging in on Balios. He watches as his parabatai dismounts, a feral grin on his face that means he’s just done something reckless, and leads the horse, sides still heaving, into the barn. For a moment, Jem begrudges Will his ability to so easily let off steam. The fever just seems to build and build and build in Jem until he feels like breaking.

But he won’t allow himself to break. Most days he’s all that’s holding Will together.

It wasn’t easy though. He’d woken on Wednesday feeling dizzy and his daily dose of yin fen had done nothing to stop the world from tilting. He’d told Will he was fine. Thursday, he couldn’t stop coughing. A deep persistent ache like his lungs were tearing. Friday, Will refused to leave the armchair by his bed, but Jem didn’t argue. His throat was too raw to form words anyway. Instead, he’d listened as Will made up insulting poems about the Lightwood brothers and recounted ridiculous tales of Six-fingered Nigel. It would have been better if every time he laughed, he didn’t feel like his chest was splitting open. He’d done his best to meet Will’s searching looks, trying to convince his parabatai that this wasn’t it, this wasn’t the day the illness finally beat him. It must have worked, at least a little, because this morning when he’d woken, Will’s armchair was vacant. When it was really bad, Will refused to spend the night anywhere else.  

A movement draws Jem’s eyes back to the stable. Will leans against the grey stones, eyes closed, bareheaded, face tipped up towards the clouds. There’s something…different… about how his parabatai looks and Jem can’t quite put his finger on it. He studies the slope of Will’s shoulders where they lean against the wall. They were lighter somehow, like he was Atlas and he’d just been given permission to put the world down, if only for a moment.

Gentle snowflakes begin to fall from the sky, thin and sparse, as they trip through the London air and spin lazily towards the ground. They brush against Will’s face until he opens his eyes and stares up at the sky. For a moment his eyes remain carefully blank, but then the light spills back into them, lighting up his whole face. Jem can almost feel the laugh as it bubbles out of his parabatai’s throat. Will casts a quick glance around the courtyard, though Jem can’t think who he’d be looking for, then Will reaches out a hand, tentative, as though coaxing a wild animal into trusting him. It takes Jem a moment to realize what his parabatai is doing—catching snowflakes.

Jem commits the moment to memory: Will, tangled black hair netted with delicate crystals, laugh still tracing the lines of his mouth, hand stretched out to the snow. He struggles to discern how this Will –light, ebullient—aligns with the other side of Will, surly and hostile. He can’t quite manage to fit the two images together.

Will’s eyes trace the complex dance of the snowflakes as they whirl around him. Then, almost as if he can feel the weight of Jem’s gaze, Will’s eyes slip to Jem’s window. Their eyes catch. Lock. Something sharp and fragile chases the unrestrained look from Will’s face. Jem raises his hand to the glass, a wave, and Will raises his own hand higher, as though to disguise his previous actions in the gesture. Jem lets one side of his mouth stretch out into a smile. A reassurance: _I’m okay. We are okay_. He can see Will visibly relax and realizes he missed the moment of Will’s transformation.

They hold gazes just a little longer, then Jem turns from the window and reaches for his violin. His fingers itch to play the memory, to capture the image in music before he forgets the exact notes of how it felt.

 Grey. Monotonous. Monochrome.

A breath that wasn’t the same as living.

 Will. Vibrant. Burning.

The curve of his shoulders. The unnameable weight lifted.

Unguarded expression. A hand lifted to the snow. Eyes locked across space.

And just this: _we are okay._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so there's not a lot of plot to this, but I just had this image of Will, in an unguarded moment, reaching for the snow and Jem watching him from afar trying to puzzle Will out. So here it is for your enjoyment :)
> 
> As always, constructive comments are welcome!
> 
> PS. It just snowed here and I have an intense desire to write really cheesy romantic holiday/snow fluff scenes with heronstairs so that is a thing that will probably be happening in the near future.


	7. A Family Tradition

“Will,” Charlotte sighed, in the exasperated tone that usually accompanied his name, “please. It’s a family tradition.”

“Well fortunately for me,” Will said flippantly, “we _aren’t_ family,” and tried to ignore the wounded expression that flashed across Charlotte’s face. He was disturbed by how easy it was becoming. The cruelty. He’d had to work at it before, resorting to sullenness and brooding stares until he’d realized that his words could just as easily be weapons as comforts. The quick wit he’d cultivated to amuse Ella and tease Cecy worked just as well to lash out at those around him. He hardly even needed to think up cruel remarks now; he just said the first thing that leapt  to his tongue and it was sure to be something barbed and out for blood.

He turned from Charlotte so she wouldn’t see him close his eyes and read any form of remorse in the gesture. She was stubbornly determined to find the good in him and it was exhausting. Maybe he could steal Henry’s Christmas brandy and get unrepentantly drunk off it. That would be sure to ruin any lingering suspicion of goodness. He pictured Charlotte’s fury and Henry’s disappointment and felt his gut sour.

Well. It’d be a last resort.

 

Will opened his eyes and turned just in time to catch Charlotte opening her mouth to undoubtedly guilt him into feeling even worse when Jem came into the dining room.

“What’s this about a family tradition?” he asked curiously.

Which meant that he’d heard Will’s response too.

Will was both relieved at being rescued from Charlotte’s good intentions and angry that he had to be rescued at all, so he scowled at both of them and threw himself into one of the chairs at the table.

Charlotte turned to James and smiled warmly. It was the only way people could smile at him. Even a blizzard would pause its howling and thaw out a grin if Jem asked nicely. And he was always nice.

Actually, nice wasn’t the right term for him.

He was _kind_.

And in that simple word he was everything Will couldn’t be. Couldn’t _let_ himself be.

In many ways, it would have made sense for Will to hate Jem. He was so easily loved and loving, free with his affection and unencumbered by things like curses.

Will felt a horrible wrench in his heart as the candlelight glittered off Jem’s increasingly silver hair. Because in his own way, Jem _was_ cursed. He just managed it so much better than Will did. And even this, perhaps, Will could have hated, for while Jem’s curse meant that he suffered, that he was dying, Will’s curse meant that he had to make everyone _else_ suffer. Everyone he loved.

But Will did not hate Jem.

The opposite in fact.

 

Even if the other boy wasn’t suffering his own curse, Will didn’t think he would have had the fortitude to withstand Jem’s kindness. Really, he thought, it would almost have been worse if Jem wasn’t dying because then his stubborn affection for Will would have killed him anyway. Will immediately felt horrid and guilty for such a thought. Grateful that Jem was _dying_? He really was a cruel, wretched creature even without his curse.

Because Jem, Jem was everything good and right that he wished he could be. Jem was the other half of his soul. The half that he had to keep buried, that he could risk no one but Jem catching glimpses of. Jem was his last link to goodness. He deserved to live. Instead, he was dying and had somehow still chosen to spend the remaining years of his life bound to this venomous creature Will was becoming.

His only hope was that loving Jem and allowing Jem to love him in return would give Jem a quick, painless death rather than the slow, burning one that loomed in the future.

He glanced back at his parabatai who was talking animatedly with Charlotte. It’d only been a few months since their ceremony, but Will felt like the tether between them had always been there. A duet between heartbeats so complete that it didn’t lack any other symphony.

 

“Is that true William?” Jem asked, drawing Will back to the present conversation.

Will stared at him blankly and Jem raised an eyebrow, gifting Will a wry grin.

“Charlotte says you refuse to decorate the Christmas tree.”

“I refuse to partake in insipid mundane traditions,” Will corrected, shoving aside memories of his father lifting Cecy to place the angel atop their own tree and Ella draping their mother with tinsel. “What a ridiculous notion, taking a tree into the house. What next, the whole forest? Ducks in the bathtub? Where will it end, James?”

Jem tried hard to keep a straight face in front of Charlotte, but Will was gratified to note he couldn’t quite manage it.

“Stop being dramatic Will and come help us decorate the tree.”

 

Charlotte bustled about, happy now that she had someone to decorate the tree with her. Will thought it probably should have been Henry, but he didn’t bother to point this out. He was sure Charlotte was acutely aware of the fact and there was no need for him to be _that_ cruel.

Instead, he sighed and stood, dragging his feet as he trailed Jem and Charlotte to the stately tree that stood in the corner. Charlotte lifted a wooden box off the mantle, handling it fondly before turning back to the boys. Will felt a hint of curiosity despite himself. The boys looked at her expectantly.

“They were my mother’s,” Charlotte explained, looking down at the box.

At the mention of mothers, all three of them fell quiet.

It was a rather morose silence, and noticing this Charlotte caught herself and smiled gently, opening the box.

“They’re beautiful,” Jem said sincerely, as he peered into the velvet lining.

Will said nothing. Sometimes that was the kindest action he allowed himself.

Inside the box were a set of crystal ornaments carved into the shape of runes. Prosperity and Abundance, Fortune and Fortitude, Trust and Understanding all shimmered up at them. They were beautiful and Will could never admit it. Each rune was hung on a thin ribbon of red silk and Charlotte lifted the top most ornament from the box, red ribbon hugging her finger. Fortitude. She bit her lip and glanced towards the door. Jem and Will shared a quick look. _Henry_. But the doorway remained empty.

With a barely perceptible sigh, Charlotte turned towards the tree and hung the rune on an outstretched branch.

“You know,” Jem mused, “in China red is a lucky color, said to bring good fortune and joy. A rather fortuitous choice on your mother’s part.”

Charlotte smiled at him gratefully and reached out to gently ruffle his hair.

“What’s fortuitous is that you’re here to make William behave himself, Jemmie.”

Will made a sound of protest.

“Jem does not _make_ me behave,” he argued petulantly, “I can be a perfect gentleman if I so choose.”

“Well perhaps,” Charlotte hinted, “you could exercise that choice a little more often.”

“Come now Charlotte, that’d just be boring,” Will added with his customary sharp smile.

Charlotte sighed but didn’t press the issue.

“Just put an ornament on the tree William,” Jem said, reaching into the box.

And because it was Jem asking him to, he did.

 

* * *

 

The box was nearly empty, a solitary ornament resting at the bottom, and Jem and Will reached for it at the same time. It was the rune for Friendship. The same rune Will had placed directly above his heart, the twin of which rested on Jem’s shoulder. The parabatai rune. Will still remembered placing it there. Jem’s steady gaze locked on his. The rightness of the moment, the way the rune unfurled fluidly against Jem’s shoulder, like it wanted to be there.

Will glanced at Jem as their hands knocked against each other. He saw the same memories reflected back at him in Jem’s eyes.

“Together?” his parabatai asked.

Will swallowed past the tightness in his throat.

“Always.”

 

If his voice was rough, or Charlotte’s eyes wide and brighter than usual, they collectively ignored it as the two boys placed the final rune on the tree. Right in the middle, at eye height, where it winked and glittered at them each time they came into the room.

And if the year after, Will didn’t put up a fight when asked to decorate the tree, and somehow Charlotte managed to leave the parabatai rune at the bottom of the box, and incidentally Jem waited until Will’s hand was on the ornament before he reached for it, and so the boys hung it together once again…well.

At that point, it was well on its way to being a family tradition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays everyone! I hope you enjoy this latest festive snippet with the boys.  
> As always, please feel free to leave constructive comments and let me know what you think!


	8. Exceptions

It felt good to be doing something. Even if the seraph blades didn’t seem to be particularly effective against this particular automaton. It was gargantuan, the largest they’d seen yet, with great arching horns and blue fire that rippled between them. Jem was on the opposite shoulder hacking away with his sword-cane, but that didn’t seem to be any more effective than the seraph blades. Will slashed again at the automaton’s head and was rewarded with little more than a dent and a spray of sparks. The metallic arms flailed wildly, unable to reach the boys as they darted and dodged, hacking at the infernal creature all the while.

Nate was below them, uselessly screaming at the automaton. Will took a precious moment to scan the room for Tessa. There. She had made her way over to Charlotte and was dragging her into the relative safety of the shadows. Will stumbled as the metal creature took a lumbering step and steadied himself on one of the great horns. Regaining his footing, he slashed at the horn, freeing it from the demon’s head and catching it before it can fall. On a whim, he aims at Nate and lobs the horn through the air. Nate stumbles back, the metal horn screeching as it skitters along the floor. He hadn’t really been trying. He wasn’t entirely sure Tessa would want him purposefully impaling her brother. But it was still satisfying to know he could have. Nate had tripped over his feet and redoubled his yelling. Will let out a dark laugh. Oh yes, it felt good to be doing something.

Will had hated sending Tessa to meet Nate alone, no matter how much sense it made tactically. Hated it even more when he’d seen her bleeding and crawling on the floor, even if he had felt a dark sense of satisfaction at the bleeding scratches that course down Nate’s face, evidence of Tessa’s fighting spirit.

“SHAKE THEM OFF, YOU GREAT METAL BASTARD!”

The words ring out, momentarily meaningless to Will’s ears. The automaton begins to shake violently, and he stumbles, losing his precarious balance. The automaton spins wildly, trying to shake him off and Will’s teeth rattle in his skull. Stepping back to steady himself, he finds only air. It’s a perilous fall and one he’d prefer not to make at the moment. At least Jem has the explosive device. He’d hate to fall through the air with one of Henry’s inventions—one that was _meant_ to explode—in his pocket. Just as he finishes constructing his own epitaph— _here lies William Herondale who, like Lucifer, was the most beautiful of his kind and also fell from a great height—_ he manages to swing an arm around the creature’s neck, catching himself. _I really need to work on a better epitaph_ , he thinks, and looks over to share the thought with James. Horror washes through Will as he turns in time to see Jem falling, but not to stop it, watching helplessly as Jem tries to pierce the metal hide of the creature with his sword-cane to catch himself. The sword slides uselessly off the metal and Jem’s wide eyes meet his own for the briefest moment before Jem tumbles into empty air.

“JAMES!”

His parabatai’s name tears out of Will’s throat, a shocked cry and a plea rolled into one. Jem has to be all right. He has to.

Jem lands with his leg under him at a sickening angle and Will feels an echo of Jem’s pain knife through him. Alive. He’s still alive. Will lets out the barest sigh of relief and watches as Jem drags himself into a standing position, reaching for Henry’s explosive device. Realizing his parabatai’s plan, Will scrambles back up onto the automaton’s shoulder. Jem rears an arm back to throw Henry’s device, but before Will can shout a warning, Nate appears and kicks viciously at Jem’s injured leg. Both his parabatai and Henry’s device fly to the ground. He should have impaled Nathaniel Gray when he’d had the chance. _Bastard,_ Will curses, not for the first time, and imagines twelve new horrid fates that he hopes Nate will suffer.

Will is shaken from these thoughts as the automaton swings at him and he is forced to duck and throw himself to the opposite shoulder. He swings his sword again, rending a thin tear in the metal at the base of the automaton’s neck and a fizz of sparks that spring towards his face. He rears back, daring to throw a look down at James. He needs that explosive device. James is hurriedly scrawling on his broken leg with his stele, casting anxious glances to where Tessa and Nate are struggling over the device.

“Tessa!” Will shouts. The automaton shakes itself again and Will wavers dangerously close to the edge. He spins, lunging towards the creature’s head and drives a dagger into the creature’s skull. The blade shatters. A particularly foul Welsh curse graces his tongue and he turns back to the struggle happening below him.

_What if Nate overpowers her? What if Jem can’t get to them in time? What if they accidentally activate the device and blow us all to smithereens?_

Tessa turns and throws Henry’s device through the air.

Will lunges, catching it and scrambling to keep his purchase on the automaton. He slices his hand on the jagged tear at the base of the automaton’s neck as he rights himself and curses again as the device becomes slippery with his own blood. He needs to activate it. But how to attach it? A bright splatter of red as his blood drips onto the metal catches his attention. The beginning of a plan teases at the edges of his mind. The automaton doubles over, snatching up Nate, but Will hardly notices. Without daring to question his mad scheme, he activates the device and shoves it through the gash in the automaton’s neck. A hollow rattling echoes as the device ricochets around the internal mechanisms of the creature and Will leaps to the ground, rolling to his feet.

_Jem._

He looks to where his parabatai had been, but the space against the pillar is empty.

_Tessa._

 She’s standing too close.

He yells at her to run, to _move_ , but she was losing the Change, her face white with shock, her eyes glued on the automaton behind him. On Nate in the creature’s pincered grasp.

There wasn’t enough time.

Will sprints towards her, his heart racing in his chest.

He imagines her wide eyes flying even wider in pain, a maelstrom of metal tearing in to her.

He imagines the blood as it pools under her pale skin.

He imagines running and still not being fast enough to save her.

There wasn’t enough time.

He can feel the timer ticking down, keeping time with his pulse.

Faster. He needs to run faster.

She still wasn’t moving. There wouldn’t be enough time to shield them both, but that had never really been the question.

The first groaning cries of tearing metal screech through the air as he barrels into Tessa, knocking her to the ground. _Tessa._ A momentary spark of relief is immediately cut short by the sharp sting of metal tearing into his back. Will curls over her, pressing her limbs beneath him. God, it was like a million bee stings all at once. The stinging fire of venom racing over his skin. Beneath him, Tess turns her face into his shoulder, her breath warm on his neck. _This would not be the worst way to die._ Metal tears into his back, his shoulders, his neck. He’s only sorry that, somewhere, James is feeling an echo of his pain.

Then silence.

Maybe he’d gone deaf.

Maybe he’d died.

“Nate!” Tessa screams, and he can feel her straining against him.

_That bastard. He doesn’t deserve her love._

_Neither do you,_ a dark voice whispers, _after all you’ve done to her._ It sounds eerily like his own voice.

He rolls over, freeing Tess, and nearly blacks out from the pain. His vision swims. By the Angel, it _hurt._

He closes his eyes, just for a moment, or an hour, or an eternity, and when he opens them again Jem is there.

Jem.

He scans his parabatai’s face. Jem’s face is ashen, but whether it’s because he hasn’t had enough _yin fen_ or whether it’s from the pain of his leg or the veritable ocean of Will’s blood that he’s kneeling in, he can’t tell. _When had he lost so much blood?_

“Will. Will, I need you to look at me.”

He hadn’t realized he’d closed his eyes.

“I’ve drawn an _amissio_ to slow the blood loss. I can’t use an _iratze_ or it will heal over the metal in your back _.”_

Will blinks slowly. Everything looks thin and wavery. Like he’s imagining it. His eyes drift up to Jem’s face. That was definitely concern tugging the corners of his parabatai’s mouth. Alarm making his eyes wide. But his voice was still steady.

“You’ll be alright,” Jem declares, gripping Will’s shoulder tightly. That at least was real. He wondered whether Jem was doing it to ground Will in reality or whether it was to stop the flow of blood.

There was so much blood. He wondered how his heart had the audacity to keep beating with that much blood outside of his body.

He was glad Jem was going to be the last face he saw. Jem was all that had kept him alive for so long, it was only fitting that he should be there at the end.

He would have liked to see Tessa though, just once more, before he died.

“William, don’t you dare close your eyes,” Jem said firmly, accentuating the statement with a squeeze to Will’s shoulder. He didn’t have the energy or the heart to tell Jem that it hurt.

With effort, he lifted his eyelids. Oh, Charlotte was there. And Henry. He supposed that was nice too. If his real parents couldn’t be there—God, who would tell Mam? She would be heartbroken. And his father, too, with the loss of yet another child. He wondered how Cecy would take it. Whether she despised him for leaving. Whether he was already dead to her.

Murmuring voices floated over his head, but he couldn’t focus on any of the words. They seemed to float in and out above him. His vision too was mostly dominated by a bright white. He was pretty sure his eyes were open, he could feel the brush of eyelashes when he blinked, but he couldn’t see. Or maybe now he really was dead and this was what death looked like, the fog before the river that divided the living and the dead.

Blackness started to creep in at the edges. He caught the cadence of Jem’s voice and Henry saying the word “infirmary,” just as the darkness took over.

* * *

 

The Silent Brother was not being gentle.

Will gritted his teeth as yet another shard of metal was painstakingly wiggled loose.

The infirmary was not the warmest room in the institute and the cool air brushed teasing fingers against his bare skin. He was glad Tess was unconscious where she lay in the next bed over. He was bare as a newborn babe, as his mam liked to say, and although the sheet was pulled modestly up to his waist, he still found himself blushing at the thought of her waking up with him in such a state next to her. Fortunately, or unfortunately as the case may be, he was rather preoccupied with the Silent Brother digging vicious looking tweezers into the bleeding wounds of his back and so was spared from exerting too much mental energy on the relative embarrassment of his nudity.

Another guttural cry tears out of his mouth as the Silent Brother works on a particularly large piece of metal buried in his spine.

“Will,” Jem’s voice is strained where he stands beside the bed. “Will, are you sure you won’t have another pain-killing rune?”

Will is tempted to laugh, but he knows it won’t sound humorous. Another pain-killing rune? He’s already had three. The pain bites just as viciously as before.

“No,” Will grinds out, “just get it over with.”

He buries his head in his arms, seeking any kind of refuge.

Jem hadn’t left his side since he’d pulled Will back to consciousness when he was laying in that ocean of his own blood. He still couldn’t believe how much blood there’d been. The sheets he was lying in now, too, were splattered with bright crimson raindrops and small pools from the rivulets that coursed down his back. Frankly, it was a miracle he had any blood left to spill.

He turned his face from the crook of his arms to glance at James. His parabatai was drawn and pale, and he caught Jem shuddering each time Will cried out. He felt a twinge of guilt; he remembered the shock of Jem’s broken leg that he’d felt back in the warehouse and knew this had to be about a thousand times worse. Hell, he wanted his mother. He’d banished Charlotte from the infirmary, claiming he hadn’t wanted her hysterical fussing, but he found himself desperately homesick, remembering his mother’s warm, loving eyes and gentle kiss placed to every scrape and bruise. He couldn’t imagine Brother Enoch ever performing such a tender gesture, although he supposed the Brother must have been human once. And then he shuddered from the horrifying image of Brother Enoch pressing a kiss to each wound on his back.

“Here—” Jem said, misinterpreting the shudder and slipping his hand into Will’s, “grip my fingers. It will help with the pain. There’s only a few more.”

A thousand responses dashed across Will’s mind, _I eat pain on my toast for breakfast_ or _how many is a few?_ or _hand holding! but James we’ve barely started courting_ , but really Will was grateful for the gesture, so he settled for a terse,

“Easy— for you to say,” gasped between the pain.

The truth was that human contact was a rare delight that Will tended to deny himself. He didn’t engage in hugs, or friendly handshakes, or casual touches, but the feeling of Jem’s hand in his own, birdlike and thin but with an iron strong grip, was a comfort that he didn’t feel like passing up. James somehow always managed to be his exception. So as Brother Enoch dug yet another shard of metal out of his back, Will squeezed Jem’s hand. Hard. So hard that both their knuckles turned white, but Will didn’t cry out. Not when his back arched in pain, nor when the metal shard sliced his skin, nor as the Silent Brother finally pulled it free. He just held on to James, their hands interlaced, and focused on the interlacing pattern that their fingers made. Will. Jem. Will. Jem. Will. Jem. Will. Jem. Will. Jem. And again. And again. And again, until Brother Enoch had removed the last shard of metal and Will slumped into the bed in exhaustion.

“Sleep, William,” Jem said, sitting on the edge of Will’s bed, not moving to untangle their interlaced fingers.

Will thought about protesting. Surely Jem was as exhausted as he was, Jem should be in his own bed, not fussing over Will.

“I’m not leaving, and you’re too ill to make me,” Jem pointed out, though Jem was stubborn enough that Will doubted he could have made him leave even if he was the picture of health.

Will only settled for a long look through half lidded eyes and a tight squeeze of Jem’s hand where it still rested in his own.

The last thing he saw before he closed his eyes were their interlaced fingers: Will. Jem. Will. Jem. Will. Jem. Will. Jem. Will. Jem. Until the darkness took over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by heronstairs2014 on tumblr  
>  Thanks for the request! :)
> 
> Also idk why, but I had the hardest time with tenses for this piece. Like I think I jump between past and present tense a bunch, it's weird and idk (I just googled it and I think it's continuous past tense but idk this is complicated). ANYWAY, please feel free to leave constructive comments and thanks so much for reading :)


	9. Save Yourself

“James,” Will gasped, grabbing his chest, “save…yourself.”

Jem looked in horror at the scarlet stain spreading over Will’s shirt front.

Charlotte’s face raced through shock and quickly transformed into fury.

“WILLIAM HERONDALE. You are twelve years old. A boy of your age should know better than to be playing with your food! I insist you clean up immediately—and apologize to Agatha for wasting her perfectly good soup!”

Will gasped, spasmed, and pretended to pass out in his chair.

Jem bit his lip to stop from smiling.

There had been plenty of children in the Shanghai enclave, but whenever he had had the chance to play with them, they always found him too serious or too shy or too young or too old to properly include. They were kind, but the interactions had always left him feeling slightly relieved when his parents had come to reclaim him.

Now, watching Will’s dramatic reenactment of the murder of Caesar featuring Agatha’s tomato soup, Jem found himself feeling like he finally had a friend. A moody, ridiculous, witty, perplexing friend. He found he rather liked it.

Will peeked open one eye, glancing first to Charlotte, who deepened her frown, and then to James. Then, before Jem could react, Will lashed out his hand in what appeared to be his final dying throes, knocking Jem’s bowl so soup spilled all down his shirt as well.

“WILL!” Charlotte’s voice was caught between a gasp of disbelief and tightly restrained fury.

“Could you pass the rolls please darling?” Henry asked, oblivious to the commotion.

Charlotte ignored him.

“You boys will go clean up at once. William—you are to come back down here and help Agatha with the dishes once you’ve finished. Jem, dear, you may return to the table if you wish to keep eating.”

Will scowled.

“No thank you Charlotte, I think I’m finished,” Jem said with a glance at Will.

Charlotte nodded once, “off you two go then.”

“Don’t _I_ get to come back and finish eating?” Will asked innocently.

“I think you’ve made your position on tomato soup quite clear William. You will help Agatha with the dishes and go to bed.”

Will stood without another word, swiping a roll off the table as he did.

Charlotte pretended not to see and smiled tightly at Jem as he bid her goodnight.

He just caught her exhausted, “Henry…” as he followed Will out the door.

Will was waiting in the hallway, chewing a massive bite of his roll.

“That wasn’t very kind,” Jem noted, gesturing to his own shirt. “It’s well enough for you to ruin your own clothes, but I only brought three shirts with me from China. And,” Jem said, thinking of Charlotte, “you made an awful mess of the dining room.”

“You hate tomato soup,” Will replied, which wasn’t really an answer, though to think of it, Jem hadn’t really asked a question.

“What?”

“Tomato soup,” Will said slowly, “you hate it. Don’t pretend you don’t. I know it.”

“Alright, I hate tomato soup. What’s that got to do with you murdering your dinner?”

Will scowled. Jem was beginning to realize it was a rather common expression on the other boy’s face.

“Well if I’d known you were going to get so sentimental about the shirt, I would have let you suffer in silence.”

Jem thought back over the evening meal: Will claiming the tomato soup looked like blood, inspiring him to reenact Shakespeare’s _Caesar,_ the horrific crash of spoon meeting bowl, the spray of red across Will’s chest, Will reaching out and knocking Jem’s soup over as well.

“William, are you quite mad?”

But Will must not yet have learned to tell when Jem was only teasing, because he blinked in surprise and when he spoke, his voice was cold and shoved distance between them.

“Well that’s rather rude, I only did it so you wouldn’t have to eat anymore of that dreadful sludge, but if you’d prefer to suffer, suit yourself.” He pushed himself off the wall and started walking down the hallway. “Besides,” he said, not bothering to turn around, “everyone knows I’m mad.”

Jem let out a light breath of a laugh and raced to catch up with him.

“Wait,” Jem said, reaching out to grab Will by the arm. The other boy glanced meaningfully down at Jem’s hand, but he didn’t let go.

“You did all that for me? You got into trouble so I wouldn’t have to eat the soup?”

Will shifted uncomfortably.

“Well, I wouldn’t say—”

“You did,” Jem beamed.

Will harrumphed but didn’t deny it again.

Jem slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out another dinner roll, offering it to Will. Will raised his eyebrows in surprise and looked back up at Jem.

“Here,” Jem said, stretching his hand out further to Will, “I was saving it for later, but I want you to have it. As thanks.”

Will looked down at the bread and back to Jem’s face. He could see Will considering refusing the bread, could practically taste the bitter words Will was biting down on. After a moment, Will swallowed his sharp comments and took the roll. He didn’t say thank you, only nodded once and didn’t quite meet Jem’s eye as their fingers brushed against each other. There was something about William. Some secret that the other boy couldn’t name that made him lash out at everyone around him. But maybe, Jem thought, he could be the exception. He found that he _wanted_ to be Will’s exception.

It was true that William wasn’t always the easiest to be around. Jem had only been at the institute for a little over a week and already he had had to resist the urge to hit Will over the head with one of the heavy books the other boy always seemed to be reading. He was so causally cruel to everyone, Jem couldn’t fathom it. If all Jem had seen of Will had been his interactions with the other inhabitants of the institute, he wasn’t sure that he would feel the desire to be Will’s friend. Even now, he sometimes questioned how being around someone like that, growing to care for someone who could be so carelessly cruel, would change him. But that was not the real William. He was sure of it.

Although he’d never told Will, and would deny it if ever asked, Jem had heard Will crying. It had only been the second day after Jem had arrived in London, his sleep schedule still in shambles from his journey. He’d been wandering the slumbering corridors, taking advantage of the empty hallways to familiarize himself with his new home. He’d ventured further into the institute, climbing staircases until he reached the turrets. Jem remembered Charlotte mentioning a music room and had just decided to go in search of it when he heard a muffled sound from a door to his left. He paused, thinking perhaps he had imagined it when it came again. It sounded like a gasp or stifled laughter. Jem crept closer. Not laughter— the breaths were too uneven. Someone was crying. It wasn’t loud. To think of it, he didn’t know how he noticed it in the first place. Later, he would attribute it to fate, drawing him and Will together. At the time, he had only hesitated in the hallway, uncertain, until he’d decided to leave whoever it was to their grief. The following morning he’d asked Charlotte what was in the turrets.

“The turrets? Goodness, hardly anyone goes up there. Let’s see, there’s Will’s room of course, and a few closets I suppose, and rooms reserved for visiting shadowhunters, though I can’t remember the last time anyone stayed in them. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.”

When Will had finally appeared for breakfast his eyes were bloodshot and his temper shorter than usual.

But it was more than just the knowledge that some terrible, unnameable pain was gnawing away at Will. Jem knew that William was capable of kindness. He’d experienced it himself that day in the training room when Will had agreed to train with him. He saw it in the way that Will brushed out Balios’s coat after a ride even when Thomas offered to do it. He recognized it in moments where Will bit his tongue rather than say something cruel that clearly lay caged behind his teeth. Jem believed in his heart that Will wasn’t a bad person. He just needed someone to love him, to know that someone was there for him no matter how ridiculous or cruel he was being. In that moment, when Will’s fingers brushed against Jem’s, he silently vowed that he would be that person for Will. Jem knew, objectively, that he was dying. He didn’t know how long he’d have, but if he could only do one good thing with his life, he would try to save William Herondale.

Will threw the roll casually up in the air and caught it again, then brought it to his eyes and contemplated it intently, “I didn’t realize you were a thief James.”

“I didn’t steal anything,” James replied evenly, “they were out for everyone.”

“ Mmmm,” Will hummed skeptically.

They both knew Charlotte would have frowned on the boys eating only bread for dinner.

Jem casually reached into his other pocket, revealed another roll, and took a bite. Will blinked in surprise then burst out laughing. Jem smiled around his mouthful of bread. Will’s laugh was rich and throaty, for once free of its usual sharp edge. His ears thrilled with it. He wondered if he could capture the feel of Will’s laugh with his violin. Actually, he wasn’t sure he wanted to. It was such a pure sound, rare and elusive. It would never sound as good coming from his violin when he knew, if he only said or did the right thing, he could hear the true sound burst from Will’s mouth. The best things were always worth working for.

Will’s laughter faded and Jem nodded once before heading down the hall to his own room. The soup had dried on his shirt, the rough material sticking unpleasantly to his skin.

“Ungrateful git!” Will called, but he was smiling.

Jem turned and continued walking backwards. “I gave you a roll! I think that makes us even.”

Will stuck out his tongue in disagreement but didn’t dispute it further. Instead, he watched until Jem rounded a corner and disappeared from view. The tomato soup had dried and started to flake off his own shirt, but he didn’t bother to change. It would ruin the shirt, he knew, and that would keep Charlotte mad and save her from loving him. Plus, it would show Agatha that he had wasted her efforts at dinner. Two birds with one stone as his mother used to say.

In the empty hallway, where he was sure no one could see him, Will slouched back against the wall, tipped his head back, and sighed. It was exhausting having to analyze every action and be forced to choose the most horrid option, to constantly be the worst version of himself that he could be. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was getting lonely. He closed his eyes and thought of Jem at the dinner table, biting his lip hard enough that it turned white trying to smother his smile. He remembered the thrill of being able to make Jem laugh and immediately scolded himself. It wasn’t right. Jem was dying, yes, but what if befriending Will killed him faster? It was too risky.He sighed again and pushed himself off the wall, turning to make his way down to the kitchen.

“Och!” Agatha scolded when he pushed open the heavy wooden doors and stepped into the steaming kitchen. “You’ve ruined your shirt, Master William. Misses Branwell won’t be pleased. She’s said you’re to do dishes. ‘ere now, they’re just soaking. Hop to, lad! You don’t want that soup to crust on the bottom o’ the pan or you’ll be scrubbing till your fingers bleed.” She handed him a stiff bristled brush and shuffled him over to the sink. “I’m off to eat with the staff now, I’ll be back in a tick to check on ye,” she said and whirled away before he could get in a word.

Will grumbled to himself and started viciously scrubbing at a pan. After a moment, he found himself humming and had to bite his tongue hard enough that he tasted the faint coppery tang of blood to stop himself. Humming was too cheery. What if Agatha came back and found him evidently enjoying his work? He thought of his mother, always singing as she bustled around the house doing chores. She’d sing Welsh drinking songs, English ballads, or silly songs she made up on the spot. The memory made Will’s chest ache. He remembered one of the Welsh drinking songs, a particularly raunchy ditty that made his father’s laugh boom throughout the house whenever his petite, civilized mother started singing it.  

The lyrics were in Welsh, but he knew that would make his throat tight with homesickness, so he started belting the words out in English as he scrubbed.

_“Blue-eyed Mary, the saint of the pub,_   
_with a bottle in her hand and whiskey in her cup,_   
_if you asked nicely, she’d give you a sip_   
_and chase it down with a kiss to the lips._

_Blue-eyed Mary, the saint of the pub,_   
_there never was a man that she would snub,_   
_they said she’d been loved and left in her turn,_   
_and in her heart a fire still burned._

_Blue-eyed Mary, the saint of the pub,_   
_with rough red fingers from the washing tub,_   
_in the evening she’d lead an Englishmen to bed,_   
_and then in the morning she’d cut off his head!_

The doors to the kitchen swung open. Will turned, expecting Agatha or even Charlotte come to scold him for his inappropriate song, but instead he saw Jem.

Will scrunched up his nose, “Come to mock me?”

“No,” Jem said, pushing up his sleeves and stepping up beside Will, “I’ve come to help.”

Will’s gut immediately soured. _Help? No. Friends helped each other. They couldn’t be friends; Will’s curse would kill him._ His brain raced for the meanest thing he could say, the cruelest action he could take. _He’s already dying,_ his mind whispered. It was a terrible thought.

Jem plunged his hands into the soapy water, grabbed a pot, and started scrubbing. Will stared, frozen with indecision.

“You know, it’ll go faster if you work too,” Jem said mildly.

“Piss off,” Will said, nudging Jem out of the way with his shoulder, but there was no bite to his words.

“You only got in trouble to help me, I’m not going to let you take the punishment on your own,” Jem said stubbornly.

Will threw a dish towel at him, smartly hitting Jem in the face.

“You can dry.”

Jem peeled the dishtowel from his eyes and smiled radiantly.

Will’s stomach tightened guiltily. _This is a bad idea._ Jem grabbed a dripping chopping board and started to dry it while Will plunged his hands back into the soapy water. _He at least deserves to know the danger he’s in._ Will tested the words on his tongue. They stuck to the roof of his mouth, weighed his tongue down and let it sink into an ocean of doubt. _I have no one._ He glanced out of the corner of his eye at Jem, who was content now that he had something to do. Jem caught him peeking and smiled.

“Where’d you learn that song?” Jem asked.

“My mother used to sing it,” Will admitted, unthinking.

“Your mother?” Jem asked carefully.

Will grinned, all teeth, and put his hand on his heart, “Swear to the Angel.”

“Was this a bed time song?”

Will snorted, “Of course. Every good Welsh mother sings of decapitating Englishmen to her children. It’s patriotic.”           

Jem chuckled. “So you’re from Wales?”

Will clenched his teeth together and scrubbed in silence. This was not something he wanted to talk about. Not with James. Not with anyone.

“Yes.”

Jem stopped drying and looked at him. Will scrubbed harder at the bottom of a pot. The soup had crusted.

“My father was an Englishman,” Jem offered instead.

“My condolences.”

Jem ignored him.

“He always spoke fondly of England. I’d wanted to visit, but I never imagined…”

_Never imagined they wouldn’t be with you_ , Will finished for him.  A heavy stone of grief settled in Will’s stomach, weighing down the silence that descended on the boys. They were both alone.

Will handed Jem the pot he’d been scrubbing. Jem peered into its depths and handed it back.

“You missed a spot.”

 Will scoffed. “Et tu, Brutus?”

A smile slid onto James’s lips, which had been the point.

_He's dying,_ whispered his mind, _this is your only chance. Make it count._ Will knew then, that Jem would be his exception. He _wanted_ Jem to be his exception. Maybe that made him a terrible person. He’d become so good a shoving people away, Will was scared that he’d forgotten how to be a friend, how to be the kind of person someone could love. He knew it would make things complicated, but Jem was alone, just like he was.

It was like Jem’s soul had reached out a hand in the darkness and Will was trying to convince himself that he was better off stumbling around on his own. He didn’t want to be alone anymore.

He smiled back at Jem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Agh, it's been difficult to find time to write recently, but I hope you guys enjoy this latest chapter.  
> I wanted to imagine what the early days of the boys' interactions were like and how they became friends.  
> As always, feel free to leave kind/constructive comments and let me know what you think! Thanks for reading :)


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